


Food for thought

by full_time_dreamer_behold



Series: Cooking is therapeutic [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Leo and Jemma cook, a little bit of angst at the beggining, and it fixes their relationship, but it only becomes better, that's the fic, they cook
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:11:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/full_time_dreamer_behold/pseuds/full_time_dreamer_behold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the mission in San Juan, Puerto Rico, everybody has to take their share of additional work. Leo Fitz takes up Skye's cooking duty, but soon he realizes... he doesn't know how to cook. Cue Jemma's entrance, and cue the two falling in love all over again. Pure fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pasta

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta its-nora-borealis! Without her attentive editing, these stories would probably stay in some obscure word document on my desktop. You're awesome :D
> 
> This fic was prompted by a hard episode of my life where I canalized my bad energies and stress in cooking. Cooking is therapeutic to me, and I've always had the headcanon that Jemma was a stress-baker. So I thought these two could use a bit of kitchen therapy together :) I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I want to specify a thing before starting: This is partly crack!fic, in the sense that it's highly unlikely that Fitz would forget all about cooking, and only all about cooking. But my point is: it served as a context for this fic. Bear with me :) 
> 
> Also, all the recipes that are in this fic, and I really mean ALL of them, are real and delicious. You can totally trust the cooking advice Jemma gives :)
> 
> *I do not own any of those characters, as I did not create Agents of SHIELD :)

           The mission in San Juan had gone so wrong. The earthquake could have killed them all. Skye had emerged from the Obelisk's enclosure to find Trip, Coulson, and Mack waiting for her, only to fall unconscious at their feet. They carried her to the surface, where the rest of the team was waiting anxiously. The earthquake had stopped when Skye blacked out.

           They understood that she was the one who had provoked the seism. The process that she and Raina had undergone in the enclosure, which Jemma dubbed Terragenesis, had given her a capacity to move things with her mind, and especially (when she was having moments of intense emotion) tectonic plaques.

           Skye was unconscious for a few days. When she awakened, the earthquakes started again. The Playground was on a solid foundation, and seismic activity was close to none on a normal day, but it was putting everyone on edge.

           The team tried to help Skye as much as they could; they had to stick together on that one. Everybody had to do their share of extra work. Mack had been assigned the repairing of every electric structure that Skye might damage. May was teaching her Tai-Chi, and was doing a great job of it.

           So Fitz, who had less chores to do than the others, began looking for a way to help. He had taken a look at Coulson’s chore sheet on the fridge: Skye’s job had been cooking supper for everyone, and she was alternating with Jemma and Hunter over the weeks.

           He could cook too, he thought. He had cooked every so often when he was at the academy, and even more when he and Jemma were at Sci-ops. He hadn’t touched a pan in the last year and a half, but he didn’t mind taking Skye’s cooking duty.

          Coulson was delighted (and probably also very relieved) to hear his proposition. He had made a new chore sheet and stuck it on the fridge. Fitz knew that Coulson found a reassurance in protocols.

           _Time to get to work_ , Fitz thought. Tonight was the first time he would cook since they had moved on the Playground. He wondered if he could find where the pots and pans were… Maybe he could do something simple, like pasta. There was canned tomato sauce downstairs, but he figured he might as well do it from scratch.

           He used to love this stuff. Cooking was nice. But his mind froze when he went for the cupboard… _Hold on. How do you cook pasta_?

           What a ridiculous question. He knew how to cook pasta.

           But he couldn’t seem to remember. It was terrifyingly simple, and yet he just couldn’t remember.

           A similar feeling to the one his aphasia triggered started to rise in his chest. Just like when he was desperately looking for a word, Fitz grabbed his head and started pacing. He couldn’t remember! It was there, somewhere in his brain, but he couldn’t access it.

           “I can’t start panicking again,” he thought. Breathing heavily, he sat down on the tile floor and flexed his hands. He slowed down his breathing, concentrating on the rise and fall of his chest.

           “I can do this,” he muttered. “I’m not the first one to be completely clueless in a kitchen. Somewhere on the internet, there has to be someone who knows how to make bloody pasta.”

           He stood up and searched for a recipe. His eyes skimmed over the screen, looking for one simple information. Mince the tomatoes… chop the onions…boil the pasta.

           “Boil the pasta! You _boil_ pasta! In water! I knew it,” he sighed.

           Frustrated with himself, he took out a big pot and put cold water in it. He dumped the spaghetti in it and lit the hob.

           …He had only been a little absent-minded, right? It must have been because he was tired. He wasn’t exactly sleeping well these days, and even when he was awake, the anxiety of interacting with Jemmaput him under a lot of stress. Not to mention having to constantly fight his way through every sentence (though he _was_ getting better at that).

           Jemma entered the room with an empty mug of tea. She and Fitz were still tiptoeing around each other. Jemma avoided him and turned away to put some water in a kettle.

           “I was just getting myself some more tea… Would you like a cup?” she asked.

           He declined politely, hoping that the conversation wouldn’t require him saying too many complicated sentences, because they both knew how that would turn out. But when Jemma plugged the kettle, she peeked inside the pot and saw the pasta.

           “What are you making… Fitz? What is that?” she inquired.

           “Pasta,” he blurted. “Why, what’s wrong?”

           He stepped forward to see what was inside the pot.

          The water had become muddy and of a translucent white. The spaghetti in the water was beginning to disperse small flakes of starch, while the noodles poking out of the water remained rigid. The whole thing was a not a pleasant sight.

           “Fitz, you have to put the pasta in _when the water is boiling_ …”

           His breath hitched. “Who said that?” he protested.

           “Everyone knows that!”

           “Well, apparently not!” he shouted defensively.

           “Fitz, please. Even y _ou_ know that.” she argued.

           “ _No I don’t!_ ”

           Jemma froze and looked at him. Fitz never yelled at her like that.

           “I don’t, Jemma. I used to know – I used to know it but I don’t.” he quavered.

           He turned his back on her and grabbed the pot. Jemma watched silently as he poured its contents down the sink.

           “You mean– ” she started.

           “I mean that I’ve forgotten how to cook. And by forgotten, I mean it’s not just very far away. I don’t know how to cook anymore. I can’t cook.”

           Jemma didn’t know how to react. When she moved to put her hand on his shoulder, he snapped at her.

           “Jemma, please! I need – I need some space right now.”

           She paused, looking at him with worried eyes, then opened her mouth to speak, but decided against it and closed it gently. She walked out of the room.

           Fitz rubbed his head bitterly and swore under his breath. Of all the people who could have stumbled into this room while he was making such an obvious, ridiculously stupid mistake, it _had_ to be Jemma.

           He put some new water to boil in the pot and went to get some canned sauce in the basement.

 

 

\-----

 

COULSON'S CHORE SHEET

 


	2. Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) I just wanna give a huge thank you to my beta, its-nora-borealis. She's so important :D Thanks nora!
> 
> \---------------------------------

           Yesterday’s pasta was fine. It had overcooked a bit—next time, he’d have to check on it more often. Nobody commented on it. Fitz supposed that they were either too tired to be fussy, or that they were expecting this kind of… result.

           Nah, the pasta wasn’t that bad. He had gotten the sauce out of the fire before it started to burn. “Relish in the small victories,”  he muttered.

           This was getting ridiculous. Tonight, he would prove himself that he was a big boy, that he was able to cook. Even if he had forgotten, a certified genius like him would be able to learn it all over again.

           Cooking for fifteen people implied that he could not do any complicated dishes (which was fine by him). He thought maybe a soup would be easy to start with. At least it couldn’t burn.

           He had seen that there was a lot of celery left in the fridge, so a vegetable cream-based soup would be nice. Celery was very inexpensive, so his mum used to cook celery soup whenever they were financially tight.

           He decided to play it safe this time and to look up a recipe. It was simple, really. Only a few ingredients, that he proceeded to put on the counter.

           “Celery… cream… garlic, onion, thyme, chicken broth…and… five potatoes? Why do they call it a celery soup, then, if it contains more potato than celery?” he muttered to himself.

           The recipe said to cut the celery, peel the potatoes and put them inside a pot with a lot of water and chicken broth to boil. So Fitz did as he was told; he cut the celery in large pieces and peeled the potatoes, then, for good measure, cut the potatoes in smaller cubes. “Then it’ll be quicker to boil," he thought.

           He let the vegetables boil and grabbed the seasonings, measuring them as the recipe said. He threw in the thyme and crushed the garlic. He was getting better at this.

           Then, when the vegetables were cooked – the celery was cooked way before the potatoes, but it was a soup, it didn’t really matter—he went for the immersion blender and plugged it near the stove. The recipe couldn’t have been more simple: now that everything was soft and mushy, he had to make it softer and mushier. He started blending the potatoes and the celery into the water. It didn’t work very well, but he persisted. He blended harder, and his efforts paid off; in the end, the soup took a creamy texture.

           Then, the blender made an alarming noise, like it was stuck. Fitz stopped immediately and unplugged it. Without hesitation, he took the blender under the sink to wash off any soup remains. He might not be cook of the year, but electronics had no secrets for him. He washed off the soup, but something kept clinging to the blade, like… long strings. He looked closer. There it was: long, stringy green fibre. “What the hell is that?” he exclaimed.

           He took it off carefully and tested the blender. It worked. He dumped the tool inside the soup and started blending again, for good measure. It wasn’t very long before the machine got stuck again. “Bloody hell— ” he moaned.

          When he washed off the potato from the mixer, he found the exact same fibre on the blade.

           “What the hell is that? Why does it keep popping up? I can’t deal with this anymore!”

           Fitz dumped the blender in the sink and took a ladle. He stirred his soup a bit and lifted a spoonful, and what he saw made his heart skip a beat.

           “What?” he exclaimed.

           He put the ladle back in the mixture and shook his head. What was that? How could that have happened?

          The soup was full of long strings of green fibre. Enough to make it look infested by a ton of little dehydrated green snakes. Fitz put his head in his hands and couldn’t prevent the tears from forming at the brink of his eyes.

           And then, of course, was when Jemma entered the kitchen. She didn’t look at what was brewing, just stretched on the top shelf of a cupboard to get a new teabag. When she saw what state Fitz was in, though, she turned around and looked at him. All pretence of ignoring him was gone. She furrowed her brow. She didn’t say anything, though.

           She looked at him for a long moment, then spoke softly.

           “Fitz…”

           “Simmons, we’ve talked about this. I can handle it.”

           “No, Fitz, that’s not how it works.” she answered.

           “…what?”

           “That’s now how any human relationship works. Whether you’re my best friend or my distant colleague, I’m not going to let you be sad if I can help it.”

           “I told you, I don’t—”

           “Oh, stop that, will you?” she exclaimed. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, much less to me. I know that you’re a brilliant person, and—”

           “I followed the recipe!” he snapped. “I followed every word of it and yet I still managed to screw it up. How can you still think I’m smart?”

           “Recipes aren’t all! Fitz, your mother taught you how to cook. You were _shown_ how to do these things. It’s not something you can just learn from a website!”

           “I should know how to do this.”

           “Oh Fitz, don’t be ridiculous. Beating yourself up isn’t going to help.”

           “No, I mean, I should know how to do these things. I know they’re somewhere in my brain. I just can’t reach them.”

           Jemma softened. “Oh,” she said.

           Her face was beautiful, even with a worried frown.

           Right now, Fitz thought, she was his friend. She wasn’t laughing at him, she wasn’t pitying him. She was just trying to make him feel better.

           “Fitz,” she pleaded. “you have to let me help.”

           “Okay,” he murmured.

           They stared into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. He looked away before it became uncomfortable.

           “This is… this is a celery soup. Well, it’s actually more of a potato-celery soup…” he said, pointing to the hob. “My mom used to cook this.”

           “It smells good,” she praised. “What did you put in it? Thyme?”

           “Yes. And a bit of garlic too. I just followed the recipe.”

           Uneasy, he looked at her as she picked up the ladle. She stirred the soup a bit, then reached for a spoon and tasted it. The green strings didn’t seem to bother her.

           “This tastes just fine… what’s the problem?” she questioned.

           “Well, I don’t know, maybe the… stringy-fibre-things that are hanging from your spoon?”

           She looked at her spoon, then smiled.

           “Fitz, those are normal. They come from the celery. Your soup is fine!”

           “But my mom’s celery soup didn’t have those!” he complained.

           “That’s because usually, when people cook celery, they chop it. They cut the branches in small pieces, so that the stringy side of the celery is less noticeable when you eat it!”

           Fitz doubted, then took another look at the soup. Those strings did look like celery. “But the recipe said to boil the celery…”

           “… implying that it should have be chopped. Fitz, this isn’t about you being stupid or anything like that. This is what cooking is like. When nobody is there to teach you, you make mistakes, you hit a wall. Then once you’ve hit it, you don’t run into it another time. That’s how people learn!”

           She looked at him expectantly. He avoided her gaze and stirred the soup another time.

           “So what, I just serve this snakey abomination to the entirety of SHIELD?” he asked.

           “Don’t be dramatic. We can fix it.” she countered.

           She turned over, grabbed a large measuring cup and added water to the mixture. Then, she rummaged into a cupboard and took out a packet of thin rice noodles.

           “What are those for?” he asked.

           “We’re going to add them to the soup. Nobody’s going to notice the stringy fibres between the noodles. I’m adding some water because rice noodles suck a lot of moisture when they cook.”

           That was… He hadn’t thought of that. Jemma broke the noodles in three before putting them in, then added another cup of water for good measure. When she was done, she looked at him.

           “You’re far more capable than you think you are. This is something you can do, I know it.” she reassured him. He expected the words to feel condescending, but instead of that sting, he found a special kind of comfort to them.

           “So… you’re saying that I have to re-learn how to cook.” he reasoned.

           “And that you can’t just follow the instructions inside a book, or much worse, on the internet. There are things that only trial and error or an actual human being can show you.”

           Ah. There it was. She was offering him her help.

           For a second, he thought about saying no. His pride was telling him that she was out to hurt him, that she didn’t really think that he was any good. But when he looked into her eyes, he saw a friend. He swallowed his ego and cleared his throat.

           “Will you… will you teach me how to cook?”

           She looked at him with relieved eyes. Her mouth split into a heart-warming smile.

           “Yes, Fitz. I’ll teach you how to cook.”

 

 

 


	3. Lasagna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) Thanks for making this fic happen! I want to give a huge thank you, as always, to my beta, its-nora-borealis. She's a pearl. Thanks nora :)
> 
> \---------------------------------

 

           The next day, Simmons arrived in the kitchen before Fitz. She started to put various ingredients on the counters while humming gently to herself. When Fitz came through the door, she turned around to face him and smiled her brightest smile, a package of frozen spinach in her hands. He shot her a venomous look and quickly closed the door behind him.

           "Could you be any more obvious?" he spat.

           Jemma's face fell. "What's wrong?"

           "I don't need the whole base knowing that you're teaching me how to cook, Simmons. They already know how incapable I am-"

           "Fitz!" she exclaimed. "we've been through this! You're not incapable-"

           "Okay, okay, don't shout. Just... keep this a secret, okay?" he sighed, impatient.

           Jemma took a deep breath and turned around to put some water to boil. She didn't answer. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Fitz calmed down. He realized he shouldn't have snapped at her like that.

           "Simmons, I'm..." he started.

           She spun around impatiently. "What?"

           "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have talked to you like that." he apologized. She didn't answer, so he continued. "I just -- I've had a horrible day and--"

           "Oh, is that so?" she shot back. "How do you think my day was? You think it was peachy, watching Skye cry and making everything explode? You think I had a fun time being completely unable to help her through that?"

           Fitz said nothing.

          "And yet," she continued, "here I am, forcing a smile on my face. Because I _promised_ you that I'd be here to help. And while you can come, anytime, and tell me about the horrible day you've had... I will _not_ stand being snapped at."

           With that, she went back to the stovetop, where she just watched the water come to a boil.

           Fitz swallowed his pride and stood up. He went to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

           “I apologize. I know you're only trying to help." he said.

           She turned around and he saw tears in her eyes.

           "Sorry... I've had a horrible day," she said.

           He nodded. She shrugged his arm off her shoulder and went back to the shelves.

           “So..." she began, "do you want to talk about your day?"

           "Not really. But thanks," he answered.  "What are we making tonight?"

           "Lasagna. It's really not that complicated, just a bit tedious. You'll see," she said.

           Fitz took a deep breath. This was going to be a very tense evening, he felt it in his bones. Jemma put the long pasta in the boiling water and closed the lid. She didn't explain, just took out a package of minced meat.

           "Here," she said, "cook it thoroughly, in small batches, then put it quickly back in the fridge."

           She didn't look at him. He took a pan from the shelf and put it on the heat. As an afterthought, she handed him a bottle of canola oil.

           "Don't put too much oil." she said.

           Right, he thought. He poured a bit of oil, and Jemma didn't say anything, so he assumed it was okay. That was until he turned his head to see that she was at the other side of the room, opening cans of prepared tomato sauce.

           With a sigh, he put some meat in the pan. It made a worrying fizzing noise, but Jemma didn't look up. She wouldn't let him burn the kitchen just because she was mad, wouldn't she?

           She came to see how he was doing, then opened a drawer to get a big metal spatula. She started to stir the meat over, and handed him the tool with a pointed look. He took it and started to stir with great intensity. She shook her head and couldn't help a small smile from playing at her lips.

           "No, you don't have to do this all the time. Just... make sure it doesn't stick and burn." she said before going back to measuring the cottage cheese.

           _Alright_ , he admitted to himself. _That one, I did on purpose_. Just to make her smile. And it had worked, hadn't it? She had smiled a bit. Just a bit, just like she was laughing... wait.

           Oh no. Was she laughing at him? Fitz frowned and turned around to look at Jemma. She wasn't looking at him. She was laying down the sauce and the cheese, too busy to care. What if she had seen right through his pitiful attempt at gaining her attention? What if she thought that it was ridiculous, and she laughed just because of how much of an idiot he was? She had already made it clear that his attentions were unwelcome.

           It was the smell of burnt food that made him snap out of that train of thought. He made a surprised yelp and started to stir the meat as quickly as he could. Jemma had heard, though. She was coming.  Oh no, now she would certainly take him for an idiot. She'd tell him in a condescending tone how it was done, and start explaining the chemical reaction that caused the meat to burn, and act like he wasn't able to do anything. _Maybe she'll stop wanting to give me any responsibilities,_ he thought, _and_...

           "Fitz. Fitz!"

           His head spun quickly.

           "Snap out of it. What's going on?" she exclaimed.

           "N-nothing. I was just thinking." he said defensively.

           She looked at him, not saying anything. He couldn't quite understand what she was thinking right now. It wasn't the condescending tone he'd expected, though.

           "What is it?" he asked, defiant.

           She raised one eyebrow. "Fitz. You had one job." She raised the pan off the heat. "This," she pointed at the meat, "is _burnt_."

           He didn't know how to respond. She emptied the pan in the trash and gave it back to him.

           "You know how this works," she said. "Don't burn it this time."

           And that was it. No reproaches, no lengthy explanation, she wasn't taking him for a child. The relief he felt was incredible.

           "I don’t hear the meat sizzling!" she said from the other side of the room. "Get back to it, I want it to be ready by the time I'm done with the spinach!"

           Hardly concealing his grin, he went back to cooking. It was surprisingly easy to do, now that his brain wasn't worrying over her. When he was done, she took the pan from his hands and poured its contents in the tomato sauce. She continued layering the lasagna while he grated the cheese.

           "So," he started, his hands covered in the smell of old cheddar, "how's Skye?"

           Jemma lifted her head and met his eyes, then looked down again. "She's getting better."

           "What?" he asked, perplexed. When she frowned, he thought better to explain himself. "It's just that you seemed to say, earlier, that she was having a hard time..."

           "Well, she had a very hard day. Her stress levels were much higher than normal. But that doesn't erase all the progress that she's made so far." She then looked at him for a few seconds, thoughtful.

           She made him put the oven to heat, and they both sat back as the meal started cooking. Jemma took a deep breath.

           “Lasagna. Easy, but exhausting.” she smiled.


	4. Gratin Dauphinois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta its-nora-borealis, who always has very pertinent suggestions about the story... and also takes the time to correct some horrible, lazy sentences. For instance, the precious one that used to feature in this chapter: "He looked at her funny"
> 
> .... Yes guys, she IS indispensable :D
> 
>  
> 
> \---------------------------------

           “What are we going to do today?” asked Fitz as Jemma handed him an apron. “And do I have to wear this?”

           “Of course. Don’t whine, you’ll be glad you put this on when we’re in the rush of the béchamel,” answered Jemma.

           As Jemma pulled on her old, stained apron, Fitz couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. _Well, she’d still be astonishingly beautiful if she were wearing only a potato sack and a sock_ , thought Fitz. Which… was not somewhere he wanted his mind to go right now. Fortunately, she tied up her hair in a ponytail and went downstairs.

           The Playground had a lot of storage place, which meant finding things was easier. Jemma came back a few minutes later with a large sack of potatoes. She hauled it up on the counter and emptied its contents in the sink.

           “Surely we don’t need that many potatoes…” Fitz asked, perplexed. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question: what are we doing?”

           “We’re going to make a very simple, perfect meal for a lot of people. It’s inexpensive and delicious, and it has a French name.” Jemma smirked. “Can you guess what it is?”

         “Simmons, you know I don’t speak French!” Fitz interjected.

           She gave Fitz an unimpressed look. “I know you _won’t_ speak French, Fitz. …and you know I think you’re missing out!”

           Fitz let out a sigh and rolled his eyes theatrically. They had taken a French class together at the academy, until Jemma's constant nit-picking caused Fitz to drop the class.“I know that, Jemma. I remember. It sort of takes away the fun of learning, when you’ve got Hermione Granger sighing ‘it’s not dauph _in_ ois, it’s dauphin _oi_ s!’ behind you-”

           “But you _were_ saying it wrong!” Jemma cut him. She started to pour some lukewarm water in the sink, flooding the enormous pile of potatoes. “Anyway, that’s what we’re making tonight. A gratin dauphinois.”

           Fitz cast a questioning gaze in her direction, before deciding to let the subject go. He stared as the water brought up the dirt, and asked “So I’m going to wash the potatoes while you prepare other stuff?”

           Jemma smiled at him. “No, we’re going to wash them together. After that, we’re both going to do the cooking. Isn’t that the point of this experiment?”

           Fitz nodded. They both dived in with a brush and scrubbed the potatoes in companionable silence. The repetitive activity stopped the hurricane of thoughts in his mind, and for that, he was grateful. Today had been a hard day too. Which prompted in his mind a thought about Skye.

           “Oh, erm… how’s Skye?” he asked Jemma.

           Jemma shone him a beautiful smile and said “She’s getting better every day. I had a long chat with her, and she’s starting to understand that there’s no going back, that she won’t be able to undo the change.”

           Fitz’s face fell. Poor Skye…that must have been a terrible moment. But Jemma saw his concern and jumped back in.

           “Fitz,” she insisted, “It’s a good thing. Once you realize that there’s no going back, the only way you can go is forward.”

           Once they were done with the potatoes, she drained the sink and put them to dry. She then motioned for him to come and took out two cutting boards and two large knives. The kind of knives that were so large that you were scared for your thumbs just by looking at them.

           “Normally we’d use a mandolin to cut the potatoes into very thin slices, but we don’t have two mandolins, so I thought we could do it by hand,” Jemma chirped. She took a potato and said, “we’re going to leave the skin on. You hold the potato like this,” –she took the potato and made sure her fingers were safe from the knife – “and cut it like that, in a quick chop. That way your knife won’t slide and cut the potato in weird shapes.”

           Fitz imitated her grip and positioned his knife, but it felt unnatural. Jemma reached to reposition his hand, but stopped in her tracks. She hesitated, then decided to tell him instead.

           “Your grip on the knife is unstable. Try putting your thumb on the side of the blade, it’ll help,” she explained.

           He did as she said, and she nodded, satisfied. He started to slice the potatoes. Again, the movement required concentration, so they didn’t talk much. But when he got to the chubby end of the potato, he didn’t quite know how to handle it. He wouldn’t ask, since Jemma was equally concentrated on her potato, but… maybe if he just…

           Automatically sensing his discomfort, Jemma turned to help him. She took her own potato and chopped it in half on the length. “When you’re nearing the end, you can cut it like that, so that it stays stable on the cutting board. It’ll make different slices, but at least they’ll all have the same thickness, and thus the same cooking time.” She smiled and got back to cutting her potato.

           Fitz smiled back and applied her method, which worked perfectly. He was glad he didn’t have to ask, like she had read in his thoughts. It reminded him of when they used to finish each other’s sentences. He would have to work on his pride, though. He wouldn’t learn much if he never asked her any questions.

           They chopped for another 15 minutes. His mind was clear and he was only focusing on his hands. They didn’t shake, he was confident in his own movements.

           When they were done and the potato slices were soaking in a bowl of water (Jemma said it kept their nutrients better), they started to work on the rest of the recipe.

           “I’m going to grate the cheese, since you did that yesterday, and you’ll do the filling, Jemma told him.

           “Don’t you have a recipe or something I can follow?” Fitz inquired.

           Jemma shook her head. “This was something we used to eat very often when I was young. When my mom wasn’t home, my dad and I would cook together. He would do the main dish, and I would cook the gratin as a side dish. It’s a very fond memory, so I keep it close…” They stayed silent for a while, then she went on: “No recipe, sorry. I learnt that one by heart,” she smiled.

           Fitz smiled back. “No problem! Just tell me what to do.”

           “You’re going to take out 3 eggs. Beat them in a ceramic or plastic bowl.” she instructed.

           “There’s only a metal bowl, can’t I take that?” he asked.

           Jemma looked up from the cheese grater and shook her head strongly. “Never beat anything in a metal bowl. Actually, you should never use anything in a metal bowl other than a wooden spoon.” When Fitz looked at her expectantly, she explained: “If you use a hand whip with a metal bowl, the metal of your whip chips the metal of your bowl, and you’ll end up with tiny particles of aluminium in your dish…”

           “Right,” said Fitz, “Aluminium against another metal: friability. I hadn’t thought of that.”

           He reached in the back of the second shelf to take a ceramic bowl, then whipped the three eggs.

           “When you’re done,” Jemma said from the cheese grater, “you’ll empty in the same bowl one of the two cream cartons in the fridge. Be sure to take the cooking cream, not the coffee cream. Whip it again,” she continued, “and add in a big pinch of white pepper, and a very small pinch of nutmeg.”

           Fitz did as he was told, then brought the bowl to her and pointed at the small spread of nutmeg. “Is that enough?” he asked.

           “That’s plenty,” she answered. “Nutmeg has a very strong taste. Okay, now that the filling is done, you can start layering the gratin.” She finished grating the cheese and went to wash her hands. “I’ll help you with that. What you have to do,” she said over the sound of running water, “is layer the potatoes so that there is a slight overlap. That way the creamy mixture will slide between them better.”

           Fitz started placing the potato slices in the large Pyrex dish she had gotten him. She joined him, and they did a few layers like that, when Jemma stopped him.

           “That’s not in the recipe,” she whispered, “but I like to add a layer of cheese inside the gratin.”

           Fitz grinned proudly and handed her the bowl of grated cheese. “Who wouldn’t want more cheese in their gratin?” he whispered back, playful.

           “Oh, that question I can answer; my mom had a mild lactose intolerance, so we used to put very little cheese on the gratin.” Jemma piped. “It was bland and dull. I never liked gratin until I decided to follow the actual French recipe, and then again, I need more cheese for it to be perfect.”

           Her cheeks were pink and her enthusiasm was endearing. Fitz swallowed hard and focused on the potatoes.

           They finished the layering and poured in the filling, then put the dish in the oven. Fitz straightened himself with a satisfied smile, only to realize that Jemma was already waltzing around again, collecting ingredients.

           “I thought the gratin was finished!” he moaned. His legs were starting to get tired.

           “Well, the gratin is finished, but… this meal doesn’t have any vegetables. We’re going to make a broccoli béchamel,” she chirped.

           “Oh, now you just made that name up, I’m sure-” Fitz said, taking his apron off.

           Jemma shot him a surprised glance. “I told you you’d need the apron when we were going to do the béchamel… and no, I didn’t make that up. It’s called a roux in English, but I enjoy saying the original name. A béchamel is a creamy sauce, and it doesn’t take much time to do. Put your apron back on, Fitz.”

           Fitz sighed and obeyed. After all, he was there to learn how to cook, and he didn’t know what a béchamel was but it _did_ sound pretty good.

           They washed, peeled and cut the broccoli, then put it to steam-cook. Jemma chopped some onions and made them brown in…

           “Are you sure you didn’t put too much butter in there?” Fitz asked as the onions sizzled.

           Jemma turned to him and gave him a smile. “My dear, butter is the base of the béchamel!” Her eyes opened wide and her smile got bigger. “If butter is the base, then we’re going to need…” she looked at Fitz, “an _acid_ ” she wheezed.

           Fitz looked at her, unimpressed. “That… was the worst chemistry joke you’ve ever made. And yes, that includes the one about the chicken.” He was hiding a smile, though. And Jemma knew it.

           “Anyway. No need for an acid, seeing as the butter isn’t actually a base. It’s just the first step in our béchamel,” she reassured. “Now a béchamel uses a very simple principle: you make some butter melt and heat, then you mix it with a lot of flour, which will serve to thicken the sauce.”

           “Why the onions, then?” Fitz asked.

           “That’s a little tip to keep your béchamel from forming lumps when you add in the milk,” Jemma winked. “Since it’s not a dessert béchamel, it’s also good for extra flavour!”

           She made Fitz stir the flour progressively in the sautéed onions and butter. Then, very quickly, they had to stir in some milk before the flour started toasting. Lumps of buttery flour were floating in barely a centimetre of skimmed milk.

            “Crap, it’s all clotted now,” said Fitz apologetically.

           “What are you doing? Keep whisking! It’s just not done yet, Fitz,” Jemma exclaimed.

           “Okay, okay, I’m whisking it. I just don’t think the clots are going to go away…” Fitz worried.

           “They’re not clots, they’re lumps. And you’ll see, it’s going to be just fine. Remember? We put the onions!” Jemma declared.

          Indeed, after a little while, all the lumps had dissolved in the milk.

           “It’s still a little thin, don’t you think?” Fitz remarked. “I thought it was going to give something more… creamy. Can’t we add some flour?”

           Jemma shot him a horrified look. “Of course not,” she said. “Now’s too late to add any flour. But don’t worry, the flour is going to cook in the milk, now that it’s equally distributed, and the sauce will get thicker,” she smiled.

           “So,” said Fitz, “What do we do now?”

           “We season it. Normally, a béchamel is delicious with a pinch of nutmeg, but let’s try something different since there’s already nutmeg in the gratin.” She went to the spice cabinet and rummaged a bit through the jars. “Aha! Let’s do it with a little bit of curry. It’ll add some colour,” she beamed.

           Fitz added some salt and pepper while Jemma sprinkled the curry powder. Once she was done, Jemma took off her apron. “Okay, that was maybe a bit ambitious for today,” she said.

           “Why? No… not at all! It was fun. And it turned out good, didn’t it?” Fitz protested.

           “No, I didn’t mean that, Fitz. You learn very fast and you’re very pleasant to cook with. I just meant that today was very exhausting for me, and that I’m feeling pretty tired now, that’s all,” Jemma explained.

           “Well, you know, I can do the rest. Just tell me when to serve and I’ll be fine,” he suggested. Anyway, he hoped he’d be fine.

           Jemma seemed grateful for his offer. “You just need to check the broccoli and the gratin every once in awhile, and call me when you think it’s done. And stir the béchamel frequently. I’ll just… go sit down in the living room. Maybe I’ll read a bit,” she conceded.

           _Take care of yourself_ , Fitz thought, but he didn’t say that out loud. Instead, he smiled and stared as Jemma walked out of the kitchen, closing the door gently when she was done.

           _Well_ , he thought, _that was nice. That was actually… very fun_. It wasn’t exactly like the old days, but it was… good.

           Fitz stirred the sauce absent-mindedly. He thought about how Jemma knew what to say to make him smile, and he thought about how she always knew exactly when he needed help.

           But he also thought about how Jemma was happier when she was with him, and he decided that there was still something good in there for the both of them. Maybe their relationship wouldn’t end up exactly how he would have liked, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t something precious. _Something to be cherished_ , he thought.

           He prodded the broccoli with a goofy smile. _Yeah_ , he thought. _We still have the potential to stay close. She’s important to me and I’m important to her. We can keep being best friends_.

           After a while, dinner seemed pretty much ready. He had had the visit of Hunter, Trip and Bobbi, consecutively. All three had been drawn in by the delicious smell of Jemma’s cooking. Well, his and Jemma’s.

           Fitz ushered the agents out of the kitchen and went in the living room to tell Jemma it was ready. “Jemma?” he asked.

           He turned around and saw that Jemma was curled up in a ball, sleeping peacefully. Her face was relaxed and she seemed content. Fitz smiled. _I’m still in love with you_ , he thought. But strangely, this time, he didn’t feel any animosity towards that thought. He was accepting it. There was no going back.

           He sat next to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Jemma,” he whispered.

           She took a deep breath and frowned, then yawned like a lion. “I wasn’t asleep,” she mumbled.

           “Of course,” Fitz smiled. “Sorry to wake you up… the, erm. The gratin dauphinois is ready.”

           Jemma opened her eyes one at a time, then yawned again and murmured “it’s not dauph _in_ ois, it’s dauphin _oi_ s…”

 

 


	5. Quiche and stew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give special thanks this chapter to my awesome beta its-nora-borealis, who is awesome and makes me a better person ;) but I also want to think lady_smellen for the last proofreading (or why you can't apply french grammar to english, clo, dammit).
> 
> The stew recipe is a friendly nod to what probably is my favourite fic of all time, The Way to a Man's Heart (Destiel, spn). It's the one that prompted me to write this, because honestly, every fandom needs its cooking fic. I have no shame in admitting that the stew recipe was really intriguing me, and that I decided to try it out, and actually really enjoyed it. It's now in my cookbook, and the reference is noted below ;) So thank you, mkhunterz, because you inspired this fic ;)

 

 

           This time, Fitz was the first one in the kitchen. Jemma came in a short time afterwards, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

           “What are we doing today, chef?” asked Fitz, smiling.

           She waltzed towards the cupboard with the baking supplies and pulled out a rolling pin and two aprons. She then handed Fitz the one with the flowery pattern, humming as she did. Looking back and forth between the cloth and his friend, Fitz was about to protest but when he saw Jemma pull over her head, the canary-yellow apron, he couldn’t help but notice how beautifully pink it made her cheeks… He’d take the flowery apron then. As he listened to her song, he noticed that he couldn’t quite make out what she was singing.

           “Jemma?” he insisted, seeing that she wasn’t answering his question. Jemma stopped in her tracks and gave him a questioning look.

           “Whoa, someone’s had a good day,” he chuckled.  “I asked what we were cooking today. Also, what are you singing?”

           “Oh! Sorry,” she apologized. “The Fab Four. I got out one of the albums I hadn’t heard in awhile.”

           Fitz smiled as he remembered how Jemma and he had loved listening to the Beatles together at the academy. He tied on the floral apron as she pulled out a recipe.

           “We’re going to be making quiche, since I remember you enjoyed that quite a lot,” Jemma chirped. “I’ll show you how to make the dough, and you’ll help me do the filling.” She hesitated : “I’ll have to go around six, though, because I promised Skye I’d eat with her.”

           Fitz nodded and helped her get out the various ingredients, but noticed Jemma had stopped humming. Had she become self-conscious? The kitchen now seemed a little empty without it.

           “If you want, we can put some music on in the kitchen,” suggested Fitz. “I tweaked Trip’s speakers a little bit, maybe we can test them out?”

           Jemma shot him one of her brightest smiles and asked “Do you mind if we listen to the album I was telling you about? It might get it out of my head…”

         “No problem!” he yelled from outside the kitchen, then started running towards his room where the speakers were stored.

           When he came back, Jemma was kneading a ball of dough, peeling the sticky mixture off her fingers. He started looking for an electric socket.

         “Had you already prepared the dough?” he said.

           Jemma smiled and shook her head. “No, I just made it.”

           “I thought pie dough was a bit longer to make than that…” Fitz asked, plugging in the device.

           She stopped kneading to dive her hand in the bag of flour, spreading a handful on the countertop. “It normally is, but I have a recipe of my own that’s quicker than you can say.” She grabbed the rolling pin and turned to face Fitz. “That’s because it doesn’t involve butter,” she winked. “Aren’t you going to come and see how it’s done?”

           Fitz pressed play and music filled the kitchen. He strutted towards the counter where Jemma was working and rolled up his sleeves.

           “Oh, I was thinking I could take care of the dough this time… see, there is meat in the fridge that needs to be used, and it would be delicious in a stew, but if we want to have the time to do it, we need to be very efficient,” Jemma said, hesitant.

           It would have been easy for Fitz to be offended by the assumption that he would be inefficient, but right now, music was playing, Jemma was there and he wanted to see her happy, so he brushed it off. After all, Jemma would surely get the job done more quickly, and a stew did sound like a nice plus. He gave her a smile and said “No problem. What did you put in that?” Pointing to the dough.

           Jemma closed her eyes and recited “flour, baking powder, a few eggs, some water and half a cup of canola oil.” She opened her eyes again and explained: “This is my favourite pie dough… it has no butter and is still delicious, while much quicker to do than a normal recipe.”

           She lifted the rolling pin and started explaining, enthusiasm reddening her cheeks. “See, this rolling pin comes from my mom. It looks like it’s only wood, but inside, there’s a bar of metal. You’ve got to be careful when you wash it to avoid any water getting in the cracks, or you could get flakes of rust in your pie the next time you use it!”

           Fitz sniggered. “Don’t tell me it’s already happened…”

           “Oh, not to me, but to my mom. Why do you think she gave me her old rolling pin?” Jemma protested. “I got rid of the rust by using a fascinating type of iron-oxide-eating bacterium called _Halomonas titanicae_ …”

           “Oh,” pondered Fitz, “How did you inject them in the rolling pin?”

           “I created an oil-based mixture that I applied every day for a week. Of course, it would have been much easier to inject it directly near the core using some kind of engineered mechanism, but I was still young and I hadn’t met you yet,” she remarked.

           Fitz felt a shiver of pride run down his spine and listened carefully as Jemma explained how to spread the dough. At the end, she decided to hand him the rolling pin and he managed to make a reasonable crust for the pie. They placed the crust carefully into the pie plate. Then, Jemma asked Fitz to get some eggs to whisk for the filling.

           “Keep one of the yolks for the crust,” she piped as he broke the eggs in a large bowl. “Oh, you took a ceramic bowl – you remembered!” she said, smiling at him proudly.

           “Of course I remembered,” Fitz laughed, “that happened yesterday. And isn’t the crust already finished?”

           “Yes, but you’ll see. The egg yolk makes all the difference,” she sang. Her hips were moving gently to the rhythm of the music and she was humming again.

         Not pressing any further, Fitz whisked the eggs and added the things that Jemma had prepared. She was emptying the fridge of all the little leftovers, tossing a few crumbled slices of bacon, a bag of spinach, celery and onion, a bit of yesterday’s leftover broccoli and a can of corn in the bowl. Then, she diced a whole package of cheese as he measured the cream. When the filling was done, they poured it in the crust and Fitz put the oven to preheat.

           “What are we doing with the leftover egg yolk?” Fitz asked.

           “We’re going to glaze the borders of the crust with it so that instead of staying beige, it becomes golden. Much prettier, don’t you think?” she winked.

           Fitz smiled and nodded. Jemma reached for a small silicone brush and broke the yolk. Then, she handed him the bowl, suggesting that he could do it. He reached forward to grab the small bowl and his hands grazed over Jemma’s. Focusing on the task at hand, he took the brush from her hands, yet couldn’t help but notice how reluctantly her hand released it and how she seemed to be scooting closer. _This isn’t what you think, Leo_ , he told himself. _Making a quiche shouldn’t be a romantic activity._

           While Jemma slid the quiches in the oven, Fitz took a glance at the clock. “Hey, it’s not even five o’clock yet!” he exclaimed.

           Jemma turned around and teased: “Time flies when you’re having fun! Although I wouldn’t get too relieved yet. Remember, we still have to make the stew…”

           She put the oven mitts on the countertop and leaned back on it, fidgeting only the slightest. She then smiled at him and said: “The recipe I want to do… the stew recipe…”

           Fitz could see that she was uncomfortable. “What is it?” he worried.

           “No, it’s just that… it’s yours. You created it.” She took a pause, then continued: “I just thought I should tell you, because it’s only fair that you know that. After all, it is my favourite stew recipe.”

           Her smile was back now, and he mirrored it. “Well, then. That’s good to know. I’ve been a real culinary chef in another life,” he joked.

           “Oh, don’t say that,” she scolded him.

           “Why?” he chuckled, “Wasn’t it a good recipe?”

           “No, I mean that it wasn’t in another life. It was a while ago, but we were together. Definitely in this life,” she corrected him.

           Fitz rolled his eyes fondly. Jemma got out the recipe from her notes, then went downstairs to get a slow cooker. Fitz skimmed over the recipe. In Jemma’s neat script were listed various vegetables, which he proceeded to put on the counter. When Jemma came back upstairs with a huge crockpot, Fitz was already washing the potatoes.

           “Did you read the recipe?” Jemma inquired.

           “Yeah,”, he answered, confident. “I can handle the vegetables. Just tell me, are the onions chopped or whole?”

           Jemma smiled proudly. “Don’t chop them, just cut them in large chunks,” she told him. “I’ll help you with the vegetables, since I want you to see how to prepare the meat.”

           She got out a cutting board and installed herself next to him, then started peeling, cutting the carrots and putting them in the crockpot when she was done.

           When Fitz had finished washing the potatoes, he was going to reach for a knife but realized that Jemma had placed herself right in front of the utensil drawer. He froze. A few years ago, there would have been no dilemma there. He would have reached for the drawer anyway, and Jemma would have moved a bit, and it would have been over. But things were different now. He couldn’t just do that. He had to… respect her personal space.

           “Jemma, could you move a bit please?” he asked, uncomfortable. “I need a knife.”

           She said “of course” and then… stayed at the same place, only her hips had moved a bit. He could reach for the handle but it would be awkward. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, then Jemma helped him out of his reverie: “What are you waiting for?”

           He reached and opened the drawer but his hand brushed over her hip. He resolved not to say anything and to do as if nothing had happened, but as he closed the drawer, he felt Jemma’s eyes on him.

           They finished the vegetables in companionable silence, yet Fitz couldn’t concentrate. He kept thinking about what had just happened. It wasn’t only an awkward moment, no: it was beyond that. He had seen a change in her attitude during those last few days. Although that might be because he had stopped pushing her away.

           Jemma then went to get the meat out of the fridge. To her, the incident was completely forgotten – or maybe not even an incident.

           “See, we’re going to use beef cubes in this recipe. Pork is more tasty, but it also dries out after a while, whereas beef stays tender,” she explained.

           He nodded. She went on: “First of all, we’re going to dredge the meat in a salt and flour mixture, and then we’re going to brown it in the pan. It doesn’t have to be cooked, but only slightly grilled on every side; that way you’re going to get more flavour.”

           She made him do it while she measured a bowl of chocolate chips. Fitz gave in to his curiosity and asked her about a few weird ingredients.

           “Jemma, why on earth did I decide to put chocolate and a bottle of beer in a stew? I mean, I’m sure it tastes okay…. But it’s still a strange idea,” he wondered.

           She turned around to look at him and smiled, reminiscing. “Well, we didn’t have much in the fridge when you made up that recipe...” She looked at him expectantly, but when she saw that he obviously didn’t remember it, she continued. “You thought about it when we were roommates at Sci-Ops. There was a bit of meat left in the freezer that we’d been keeping for a special occasion. You took a sack of potatoes, some carrots, onions and a bottle of beer,” she rolled her eyes, “because we didn’t have any chicken broth, and you made us a stew. Then, you thought it didn’t taste good enough, so you added a bit of chocolate to compensate for the bitterness of the beer.”

           She looked at him with a fond smile. “It was the best stew I had ever eaten.”

           Fitz reddened and concentrated on the meat. The way she had told him the story made it sound like they had been… a married couple, or something.

           Once they were done, they put everything inside the crockpot and Jemma programmed it to cook for the evening. She stole a glance at the clock only to let out a quiet gasp.

           “Oh, is it already six o’clock? I’m so sorry, Fitz, I’m going to have to go now,” Jemma apologised. “Skye is waiting for me, I promised her I’d be there by six-thirty and I need to take a shower.”

           Fitz shook his head, indicating that it was nothing. “I’ll take care of the quiches. You go and say hi from me,” he reassured.

           Once the door to the kitchen had been closed behind her, he let out a huge sigh and sat at the table, fiddling with his sleeves. _That’s it,_ he thought, _I’m in too deep._

           Jemma was acting like a friend again, yet he couldn’t stop seeing signs of interest in her demeanour. Nervously coming to a realization, Fitz thought about the way she would play with her hair, smile at him, and her hand grazing over his… it was almost like she was _flirting_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I know this isn't the ending you were expecting... but that's because there's a part 2! I've already mapped out the whole thing, and it will be pure fluff like this one, and will be finished before summer kicks in, most probably :)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all the recipes found in this fic are real, actually exist and are delicious. Feel free to use them :)


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